


Octavo

by Otherwise_Uncolonized



Category: Frozen (2013), Tangled (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Arendelle, Ballroom Dancing, Bandits & Outlaws, Betrayal, Cat Burglars, Character Analysis, Character Study, Comedy, Con Artists, Crimes & Criminals, Deal with a Devil, Deception, Demiromantic, Demisexuality, Depression, Dirty Jokes, Dirty Thoughts, Discrimination, Drama, Elsa Has Issues, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Manipulation, Emotionally Repressed, Enemies to Friends, F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, False Identity, Fan Characters, Fanfiction, Gossip, Hans Being an Asshole, Heist, Hurt/Comfort, Inspired by Poetry, Isolation, Kindred Spirits, Kings & Queens, Love Triangles, One-Sided Attraction, Orphans, Partnership, Party, Poetry, Politics, Purple Prose, Queen Elsa, Romance, Royalty, Running Away, Satire, Secret Identity, Self Confidence Issues, Self-Denial, Self-Esteem Issues, Sexual Tension, Sociopath Hans, Team Dynamics, Temporarily Unrequited Love, The Southern Isles, Unrequited Lust, What-If, Witch Hunters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-20
Updated: 2017-11-29
Packaged: 2018-03-18 19:40:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3581544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Otherwise_Uncolonized/pseuds/Otherwise_Uncolonized
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After pawning off Corona's tiara, Eugene restarts his life as a solitary aristocrat in foreign lands just like he always said he would.<br/>
Unfortunately, being rich and alone isn't everything he thought it would be. It's actually pretty lonely.<br/>
Tonight, he's attending a Nordic queen's coronation for sketchy purposes of his own, but he's not the only serpent in the grass.<br/>
What happens when two snakes lunge for the same mouse?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. ❄. Prologue: The Reader

❄ _._

_. ❄_

❄ .

If there's one thing you should know about me, it's that  _I_  am an original work.

I have successfully authored my own life story after blue-penciling any errors in myself that would have stopped me from becoming the living manifestation of my very own dreams  _(but this, ladies and gentlemen, is just between you and me)_. Because the world is peopled with rough drafts and D-list novels, I don't see bodies and faces.

 _I_  see characters and stories.

Timeworn cliches.

Caricatured depth.

Lackluster dialogue.

Indented heartbeats with underwhelming narratives that never break the fourth wall.

People don't dream about whether it's more fun to be a run-off sentence than it is to let periods dictate where expression stops. They're content with being trapped inside parentheses and punctuated with,  _"The End."_ This type of unoriginal universe makes everyone everywhere easy to read, and of course, that much easier to con them out of their stockings.

"Hi."

But I can't read her.

"You look beautiful..."

I can't even take her off the shelf.

"So...! This is what a party looks like."

It's not that she's a closed book with a chain on it. Little Missy tries to be that and is working hard at it.

"And what is that amazing  _smell_?"

The problem is that she's a lighthouse with automatic lamp changers, leaving you blind with the afterimage of the smile before. And the thing with the chocolate...

"Chocolate~!"

... _Seriously_?

"This is so nice!"

This  _Mother Theresa_  has gone through more metamorphoses than a caterpillar by taking turns with being warm towards her sister, cold upon her touch, timid in the chapel, smug before the ballroom, accessible to her guests, and inaccessible to her suitors. Every twitch in the fingers is contradicted by the control in her voice. The breathy lilt in her speech is contradicted by the sauciness in her sarcasm ― the cackle to her laugh when she throws that moonlight-blonde head back ― the soften of it after she hides her mouth behind her hand. Every action reveals a new, unexpected layer that peeks out from underneath  _what's supposed to be_  and revealing  _what could be_  before scuttling back into  _what is_...or  _isn't_. She is transmitting so many mixed signals that all I'm getting is static.

When her own freedom starts to frighten her, she's back to curling those gloved hands against her chest, rearranging them into a perfect "V" of straight control and regality like a wrinkle had to be ironed out of her personality's petticoat.

"Thank you, only I don't dance..."

But I swore I saw her drumming her fingers against her knuckles just now.

"But my sister does."

This is seriously like trying to read a book in a carriage and getting wagon-sick. Her format isn't totally bogged down by periods and commas, but she's trying hard to stay inside the brackets of her own script.

"I wish it could be like this all the time."

"Me, too..."

Therefore, she is not a closed book; she's working overtime to be that.

"..But it can't..."

The problem is that her pages are flying rapidly, and neither I nor she can hold them down when that window flies open.

"Well, why  _not_ , it—"

"It  **just**.. _.can't_."

She glances in my direction with salt lake eyes, looking past me and somewhere afar...

I wonder if she blue-pencils her own errors before she faces people, too...?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \-------------------------------------------------------- 
> 
> "i had a dream of a porcelain girl who called herself 'disease,'
> 
> and when i tried to shatter her it was only killing me..."
> 
> ~*Intricately-ordinary, "Existentialism and Shoddy Metaphors."
> 
> \--------------------------------------------------------


	2. Masquerader

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I know that you were built hollow like the porcelain dolls you grew up with.  
> Cold to the touch.  
> Perfectly fake.  
> Shattered."
> 
> ~ intricately-ordinary, "Why We Pity Angels"

"Would you grant me the honor of dancing with you, Your Majesty?"

With a twitch and a smile, the poor chap is sent back to Mama after a polite dismissal. The young bucks in here always return looking shipwrecked after a visit to the queen's dais during the waltz. It's not that she's cynical and dismissive of strangers — she's too well bred for that — but she's so gentle with her rejections that there's no recovering from it for the snotty welps of the group. She definitely won't give them the satisfaction of being rude, because at least there's a  _reaction_  in that. Therefore, it comes off as a genuine disinterest — that kind, ladylike disregard that thumbsuckers can't stand.

"It's a pity."

I didn't recognize the owner of this vapid commentary  _(I swear)_ , and I certainly didn't plan on tracking him  _(I double swear)_ , but my curiosity outgrew my resistance by ten inches, so naturally, I cave.

The person I find standing behind me is a young noble with wealth practically dripping from his bootstraps. His face is asserting, sensitive, and icky-sweet, but something about his posture looks rehearsed. "Is it true that no one can move her?" he asks his company, wearing a sheepish smile that looks more like a painted on imitation of one as he entertains the sitters on the outdoor patio.

"She is not to be moved at all," whispers his interlocutor. The fellow then proceeds to slick his caterpillar-eyebrow with his finger while he stares at the queen.

Do people ever even realize how ridiculously suspicious they look when they do that?

"Her maidenliness is like a halo standing between herself and wooers, but I sincerely believe there's more to it than this," he yawps. "After all, she was unwilling to show her face three years ago."

"Queen Elsa is indeed a closed book." The young noble ducks a chuckle behind his fist with a sugary voice that will, pray tell, give him cavities in the morning. "I don't think anyone can read her climate."

Seriously? Sunny with a chance of _sod off._ She might be moody, but she's not a summer in Britain, for Pete's sake.

"Yes, well, she can not be so beautiful for nothing," the elder scoffs, taking a long drag on his cigar before exhaling smoke through his nostrils. "It would be a disservice."

As if hearing a cattle call, other men come crying, and sooner than later I realized that I was eavesdropping on cows that were all drunk and stupid with their gold-beaded  _Venetian_  glasses in one hand and superficial lexicons in the other as they mooed about this poor damsel in distress:

"I attempted to ask her for a dance, but nothing came of it."

Boo-hoo.

"Perhaps because she knows princes are only speaking to her with an agenda, so it would make sense to just nod and smile."

"Make 'sense'? Exactly who's side are you on?"

"The side of the angels."

"Save me the Christianity. You've been drinking with devils all night."

Nice.

"Your comment is absurd because the agenda of her suitors benefits her alone."

"Yes, yes — she is vague in some way, and there is something babylike about her eyes when she speaks or goes quiet, but such reserve is suitable for a queen. She must lack the charm of appearing attainable. There's a reason why the men keep their eyes down when they bow to her, all the while holding that blush in their cheeks as she smiles in approval. To show their attraction to a crowned virgin — well, that would be to disgrace not only her position, but her wholesomeness."

"You've all been hiding from your wives behind wineglasses and chocolate fondue bowls just to rave about her "architectural proportions." Where's this "rule of respect" been keeping itself?"

Honestly? These arguments are all completely irrelevant. The question they should be asking themselves is  _who's idea was it to put her in that slinky gown_? While I have to thank them, aren't we supposed to be sold the illusion that she eats grapes with  _Saint Mary_? If Arendelle wanted men to gaze upon her with virtue, then they should've sacked her in a poncho, not given her 34C's their own skintight premiere.

Not that I plan on filing a complaint to the seamstress in charge. Note: please keep up the good work.

"True. It is mandatory that she carry the air of  _Iounna_ , and that's all well to do, but what of her duty as a  _woman_? Will no man father children for the throne?"

"This kingdom looks upon her like a unicorn who's finally galloped out of the woods, but beauty only withholds hearts for five minutes before they are starved from her inability to connect with them, so suitors will only leave with the same feeling."

"Then where is her sister? The one who had her throwing her head back and laughing like a carefree hostess? It's because of her that so many believed they could step into her heart just the same."

"It won't help shake a man's opinion on her. Princess Anna can win the love of an entire army with her genuine heart, but her sister creates a stage of surreality in a room because her presence is so beautifully out of contact with the real, frustrating world others must live in. Guests have to strain their eyes and polish their glasses to get a good look at her character."

"Dear Gwaine, what are you trying to say? I'm not one for Shakespeare, so please use vocabulary normally."

I second that.

"I am saying that she doesn't participate in the real world."

"Yes, I've gotten that half, but what are you  _saying_?"

"For God's sake, he's saying that the queen doesn't face hardships like the normal person. She refuses to bleed with or for them. This is evidenced by the fact that she didn't even mourn the death of her parents with Princess Anna and Arendelle."

"Aie! Kingdoms were abuzz for three years that she did not show up to the funeral because of a  _frozen heart_. You shake your head? I tell the truth."

"If Arendelle had second thoughts about the heir being the  _Ice Queen_ of the _prophecy_ , then she wouldn't be wearing a crown."

The red-haired noble with the icky-sweetness pipes up, "I'm sorry, but what is this... _prophecy_?"

"Why, don't you know it?"

His smile turns wood-hard. He looks down and taps his wineglass, before looking up at them with the glossy eyes of a golden retriever. "I regret to say that I don't, Admiral."

"I see." The man speaking looks curiously uncomfortable. "Well, before a king was ever crowned on this land, there was an ancient prophecy about a ruler with a  _frozen heart_  dooming Arendelle with  _dark magic_. How, or when this ruler would be born, was never disclosed."

"That's because it was nothing more than a bloody folklore," another admiral barks. " _Dark_  magic — can you even imagine? A magic show of snowflakes shooting out at some sovereign's will like a little fairy? The whole image is utterly ridiculous. Whoever thought the thing up was clearly drunk at the time of thinking it!"

"That may be so! That may be so. However, we are all foreigners to this land, so for its natives, it probably holds a 'ridiculous' amount of credibility to them. Did you hear the children's choir before the queen entered the ballroom? They sang about the prophecy and its origins like it was part of a Christmas carol."

"All the more proof that it is not taken seriously by its locals." The barker lifts the wine to his lips. "Ridiculous, I tell you. Utterly  _ridiculous_." He pauses to curl his lip and bob his head in mockery of the loony direction the conversation had taken. " _Dark_  magic. Why, I should've brought my wooden  _skis._ "

Now, here's what I call a tale. I weighed up the corner-conversations taking place over wine and custards behind the curtains, listening for more backstory and clues, and found bulletin points in plenty:

(•) The queen's parents were killed at sea.

(•) Her parents forbade her from coming out of the castle for a decade _(there's something disturbing about this)_.

(✭) The sapphire on her neck is worth half a planet.

(✭) Her future Prince Consort will inherit the king's gold.

(•) And, last but not least, her guests do not completely like her.

They liked her blondness, her posture, her poise―and the men have complimented her good looks surreptitiously―but no one knows how to really feel about her. Some are choking on their own spit with love for her compared to the peasants who are trading gossips for careers. People knew that they admired her, modest and maidenly as she was, yet she was far too distant to be embraced without awkward arms. Everyone stomached her sister, the third act, the circus sideshow, the easy read. However, when reading the queen becomes akin to reading small print after rumors of  _emotional detachment_ , commoners begin to question her capacity to be their  _Lady Godiva._ After all, she might not ride naked for their oppression.

"Do you still favor the piano, Your Majesty? Your father would tell us that you were quite the prodigy when you were — what was it? No older than six?"

"Oh my, how wonderful! A true artist on the throne!"

A humble smile at the floor and a squeeze on the wrist conveys the perfect image of modesty, but I think it looks rehearsed. "Eight exactly, Your Grace, but my... _interests_  unfortunately didn't make it past age nine."

It was a subliminal joke, but the swooning beauties laugh like hyenas. 

"A pity, then! A pity, don't you think?"

"No, not at all." Her shaking head is followed by an almost tired quirk of the lips, complete with dimples and sunken eyelids. "Just a...part of life's  _evolutionary_  stages. All childhood interests must have their season, after all."

Eloquent, but depressing. Nodding at the former, the noblewomen attempt to lighten the mood:

"You know, now that I'm what they call a "woman," sometimes I think I should like to keep my childhood interests for a summer more!"

"Nonsense. Your father wouldn't have let you, and I, as your mother, wouldn't have rebelled against him."

"But I could've made a fine pianist for you. Perhaps if you had let me finish my lessons, I could've been father's  _Ludwig van Beethoven_."

"Perhaps, but it wasn't done on my part. Your father was the one who sold your piano after your twelfth birthday."

"So you took a passive stance? I know you couldn't exactly start a revolution for me, but women should always side with each other. Don't you agree, Your Majesty?"

The queen's eyes run along the floor as her counterparts titter. Her hands are doing that caterpillar-curl again, the one where she looks like she wants to curl up into a fetus position. As if to be blue-penciling the errors in her character, she straightens her elbows and folds them back in front of her without another word.

—"Enjoying the play?"

I jump, almost spitting up my drink. My intruder is none other than a middle-aged woman whose name I'm too scared to know. The rock on her neck says it all, and the lady herself oozes wisdom and egotism in collateral measure, bidding me to "come closer" at my own risk like some black widow in a cave.

"It's about to get dramatic." Her vibe is so strong that I half expect her to give me a tarot card reading. "Leave this to me. You can be one of the side characters."

Then this is the worst casting gig I've ever been to. Couldn't you at least give me the manuscript before you started catapulting weird roles at strangers?

"What do you say?"

I sip my aquavit to calm my nerves. "Sorry, but I don't act."

"Not even for commissioners?" She blinks.

I crack a charming smile. "Not even for kings. I'm not exactly the biggest fan of plays, either."

"Oh? But you were watching the queen the way one watches  _Hamlet_."

I clear my throat and look at the ceiling with a pointed finger. "I was ― just  _admiring_  the architecture! Arendelle's aesthetic taste is simply  _splendid!_ "

She looks from me to the crowned blonde. "Undoubtedly. No better time for its grand opening."

I scratch the side of my nose. Can I exit stage left? 

"I wonder how she feels about being seen that way." 

"Seen that way?" I'm not catching on. Is this part of some riddle?

Just as I think I can see the queen looking for someone over the toupees of dignitaries, she leaves her father's throne and joins... _people_. Stop the carriage;  _Mother Teresa_  has stepped off her altar. Guests bow to her when they mistake her attention for being on them, and she bows back with the same shy smile she's got saved for everyone, passing through "like a unicorn" among villagers. Even from here, she doesn't blend in with her own people. There's this strange gap between her ethereal appearance and their mundane ones.. _._

Good grief.

Looking at her really  _is_  like looking at Baroque architecture.

"Did the, uh... _architecture_  bring you to Arendelle as well?" I stop to give my unwanted cougar a smirk from the edge of my glass.

Surprisingly, she doesn't one-up me. "Hopes for a family reunion did."

You don't say? Well, good luck with that.

"Can I request your name, my good fellow?"

Before I can even complete a thought, the queen's gaze intersects mine like a boat hitting the wrong dock, and she stops shining her smile around the room to try and read me as I had tried to read her.

...

...

Um.

Are we telegraphing each other? I don't speak Morse Code, so this is going to get lost in translation.

I stretch my collar and force a half-smile at Her Majesty, raising my glass as a salutation. The bottom of her eyes squeeze up like they do when she's uncomfortable. She doesn't know how to react; she's trying to choose a face —  _a smile_  — albeit a strained one — with the decline of her chin to substitute a bow.

I return it.

She looks away.

I look away.

The end.

...

Well, call me a potato.

She didn't  _even_  try to undress me with her eyes.

It's no wonder suitors are making bonfires back here. She has the power to make the entire male race feel like flowerpots on a patio.

"Did you hear me?"

 _'Now what?'_  I turn to face the older woman by my side. For whatever reason, she's smiling at me like a playful kitten, but her pretense is better suited for a coquettish young girl than a woman pushing forty, so it's giving me an upset stomach.

"Just a moment ago, I had asked for your name."

Okay, seriously, Lady. Who are you? I'll bet the lost princess's tiara that you've spent the whole evening sizing up male candidates to take home, but  _who are you_? Because it is WAY past your bedtime.

"Wouldn't you lose all fascination in me if I told it to you? After all, ' _the commonest thing is only fascinating if one hides it'_ ―"

"― _'Because a mist makes everything wonderful.'_  Indeed...however, the women have been going around about a wealthy foreigner with  _sun-kissed_  skin for the past month. Yet no one is invited to his... _private_  property? This man who shows up out of the blue? It sounds like a very lonely life, but the man himself carries a mist behind him."

Did it ever cross your mind that that means I want to be left alone? "You can express all the disbelief you want," I joke, "but I prefer to keep my private life private. The silence is really therapeutic, and I've got a whole floor to myself for yoga practice."

She guffaws. "You're a riot, after all."

And evidently, a snake-charmer. I didn't even bring my pungi tonight and cobras like this one are still drawn to the melody of my voice.

"I suppose living all alone must be a very peaceful adventure, but  _you_  must be here because of a woman."

"Pardon?" Had I known I'd be an extra curriculum, I wouldn't have come here in the first place.

"It's just that you don't take me for the sort of man who'd spend his free time at coronations unless you were trying to get into a woman's good graces."

"Perceptive." Too. "Unfortunately, my partner is entertaining her father." That is only half the story, but she doesn't need the whole plot.

"So you're not here to buy a wife?"

I pray to Shakespeare that you don't make it to Act III, I really do. "The women I like don't wear price tags on their necks, just pearls. Besides, a ball and chain on my foot isn't exactly my idea of high-end glamor."

She laughs. "Let me introduce myself." A hand is extended. "My name, is  _Madel Lodveig_."

Yeesh! Gesundheit. That is one unfortunate mucous disease.

"I know you've heard of it."

News to me.

"No? Not even once?"

"Unfortunately, it doesn't ring a doorbell."

"Then I hope your feet are quicker than your memory."

"My  _memory_?" 

The crowd clears for two dance partners. I join the migration at very the last minute, heading south of the ballroom with  _she-who-must-not-be-named_. Although Her Majesty is the only one left standing, this made it possible for her to pinpoint the person she was looking for, and that person is―

Ah. Princess Anna. The circus show.

Because fate is funny like this, her sister is dancing on my side of the room with the same man who started the verbal lynching between her suitors. She's beaming up at him with that  _mental illness_  called love, but his eyes are following Her Royal Majesty.

Wait.

What's wrong with this photograph?

I don't know how many lobotomies he's performed on this girl, but the princess doesn't notice a thing. Love is the leading cause of brain tumors, so I can empathize with every one of its patients, but let me say here and now that the prince is not one of them. To say he was in love with the queen would be a ginormous typo. On the contrary, my friends, his big green peepers have the look of a boy who's just found a junebug to stick his pins into. I didn't even realize that his white stag was now standing a nice foot away from me ― gazing at him with the same apprehension I have ― but there was a moment when she looked at me ― and I looked at her ― and my intuition reflected in her face. Everyone around me suddenly sounded like they were talking underwater, and everyone around her fell into greyscale, leaving her image in green and magenta. Her babylike eyes made her look small and fragile to me just then...

...And then this strange feeling of dread crept up the back of my throat. "...Evening." I just had a feeling that you were going to die. "...Do you like chocolate fondue?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Her eyes are two glossy sunsets  
> out of a few trillion that have set before;  
> when she shuts them no one blinks."
> 
> ~ intricately-ordinary, "Something Lacking This Way"


	3. Part II: The Damsel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Look at what I found? And there's more.

Okay.   
  
So let's back up here for just oooneee~ moment.  
  
Now there's no way that having premonitions is considered  _normal_ , because I'm not one for seeing into anyone's future except my own, which is our first plot hole. If I am, then that would imply that I have a few screws loose, and I am  _definitely_  not ready for the funnyhouse. But the queen and I are still staring at each other with dramatic effect, so I wasn't sure what to say other than,  _"...Evening. Do you like chocolate fondue?"_

Judging by her non-reaction, Queen Elsa isn't in the mood for  _dolços i aperitius_  right about now. She's breathing a little unevenly, and I can see her breaking out into a sweat all over, but then she gives me the fakest smile I've ever seen on any woman's face in or out of the bedroom (look, it happens to all of us), before murmuring, "Please excuse me..."

I don't fight for her time after hearing that line. I mean, not that I was ever fighting for it in the first place, but I didn't want to come off like all the other gasbags in this amphitheater. Harassment is absolutely  _not_  the way to a mark's heart, ladies and gentlemen. You're probably suggesting that I warble, "Are you alright?" But clearly, she's  _not_  alright at all, and if I asked her something that rhetorical, she'd probably look at me like I was a talking eggplant.

Alas, Her Majesty walks away from me with her fingers on her temple like she's about to have a fainting spell. I watch her exit the ballroom from the garden altogether with hundreds of eyes still opening fire on her back. This is the part where I try to tell myself that maybe I'm wrong about what I saw. Maybe I was just having a nervous breakdown. I hate to admit it, but those are getting more common around my neural neighborhood these days. As much as I love living alone in my new manor ― even if it's not exactly the warm and sunny island I dreamed up ― I'd be lying if I said that my chemical balance was in tip-top shape thanks to how much the place echoes.

Annnd  _maybe_  I should've just lied and said that my chemical balance is in tip-top shape instead of admitting that it isn't.   
  
But getting back to our story, I notice that the prince is taking Princess Anna to a balcony. The girl is playing the part of a motormouth who won't let the man get a word in, but he's amused by the minstrel, and doesn't try to interrupt her. I don't know how he's surviving it. For a princess, she's more of a ragamuffin than a lady, and taking breaths between sentences isn't her strong point.

I like to talk enough for the whole room, so I could never deal with hyper taletellers who hogged all my oxygen compared to this champ. But audience, I can honestly say that his endearment looks genuine, even after she serves him her grand finale by clocking him in the nose. That's gonna leave a dent in the morning.

"She's unprepared for this position."

Oh, that's right. You're still here, aren't you? How fortunate.

"She's sensitive and insensitive simultaneously," Madel Log ― I'm sorry, but I'm not pronouncing this ― puffs her disapproval of Elsa's inheritance like I care.

"Well, I try not to judge people based on their reputations." Heaven knows mine is false. Ah, and if you're wondering, I no longer go by the name of  _Flynn Rider_ in this timeline. Nope, I've stolen a brand new identity.

"Actions speak louder than reputations, Sir."

"... _True_ , but... _I_  wouldn't want to attend my parents' funeral either, personally speaking. Who wants to be around a bunch of strangers who pretend to know them as well as you did while you're balling your eyes out? Besides, actually going to the funeral actually makes their death real. Not going gives you some time to pretend that it isn't...at least for a little while."

"...You've had a similar experience with your parents, I'm assuming?"

"What?"

"Your eyes changed when you looked away. They were clouded with seriousness, for a first."

For a first? Lady, you've known me for five seconds. I don't have enough time to cover myself because my heroine is gliding my way, and what a heroine she makes. Wealthy, refined, noirette, Catalan,  _beautiful_  ― this arm candy of mine is a real top-dollar lady, and there's nothing better than derrieres that sit on pedestals instead of chairs.

"There you are, _amor meu_." She smiles, and I know there's a heaven. "I thought you'd deserted me."

"Now why on  _Earth_  would I  _ever_  part from a  _dent de lleó_  like you? I'd have to be out of my mind to commit such a terrible crime." Because you ditched me, remember?

"My thoughts exactly." My trophy girl wrapped her arm around mine and aimed her elegant smile at Madeline over here. "Luisa Queralt, daughter of Biel de Queralt and Jacinta de Perellós." Get 'er, Luisa.

"Madel Lodveig." My black widow didn't look impressed by the competition, but she curtsied anyway, because she  _was_  standing before nobility.

"Oh! M-my...!" Luisa looks pale. "I'm...so very  _pleased_  to make your acquaintance! I never would've expected to meet  _the_  Madel Lodveig in Arendelle."

Okay, time out. You're overreacting. Who's not telling me what? "Luisa? Sweetheart?"

"Yes, Darling?"

"What am I missing here?"

"Well, Cristo―"

" _Cristo_?" the old lady repeats, butchering the Spanish pronunciation. "Cristo is your name? Like the Count of Monte Cristo?"

I wasn't going to tell her  _yes_ , but yes. It is. " _Act_ -ually, I go by  _Cristo Castell."_ And if she looked him up, she'd be able to find Cristo Castell's squeaky clean record. I did choose his name because it reminded me of my new favorite tale, though. No lies told there.

"...And as I was saying, Darling ― Madel Lodveig is Queen Elsa's aunt."

Oh.

Well.

 **That**  changes things.

"I was exiled from Arendelle for eloping with a Catholic professor who wasn't in my Protestant father's good graces."

...VOOF! Talk about  _backstory_!

"That's  _horrible,_ " I butter. What else is there to know about you?

"It was...but the ban was removed by Arendelle's regent with the support of the Storting after I divorced him. I am no longer allowed to enjoy the title, "Princess of Arendelle" in any land including Arendelle's, but I am able to meet my nieces."

Tell me more, O' Estranged One.

"Unfortunately, it was a lukewarm reception. Princess Anna, as you can already tell, is more interested in meeting pretty princes, and Queen Elsa is more interested in being alone. I, on the other hand, can't complain too much about my alienation." She glances at the young men in the crowd. "Pretty men do make better company than selfish relatives."

A guy with a cocky posture and grandeur to die for walks by.

"...And this is where I must leave you."

Figures.

"You're leav-ing~?  _Already_?"

"I'm afraid I can't entertain you further, Cristo. You're already taken by someone worthier...and prettier." She winks at Luisa. " _Adéu?"_

".. _.Adéu."_

And just like that, she's off to panhandle for the attention of other morons.

"...She didn't curtsy to me," Luisa gently complains as she watches the old owl prey on rodents.

In my good woman's defense, Luisa the Goddess isn't overwhelmingly snobby. She's a little into herself, but not so into herself that she'd deny kittens shelter during a rainstorm. She just has the same entitlement complex that all rich people have...along with a fascinating case of kleptomania. But I'm here to be her medicine, and she's here to be mine.

"Look at it this way: she most likely has bad knees."

That gets a laugh out of her. A pretty one, too. "And how are your knees?" She pinches my waist. "Aching from standing in one spot for so long, I imagine?"

You bet your behind. "Hardly. I was collecting intel about our Lady Godiva, which is a sure way to discourage charlie horses."

"Who?"

"...Nevermind."

The most private spot we can find for a deeper heart-to-heart is not so private. I know Luisa wants to rave to me about that sapphire on Queen Elsa's partlet, as well as with how much she can't wait to finish this heist, but I'm going to have to distract her with what we're getting out of it. And by "we," I really mean "me."

"What'd you say to dining with me in Madeira by next month?"

Luisa the Goddess grins at me with her gloved hands folded ever so prettily. "Madeira?" She sits down on the arm of the balcony and brushes her hair off her bare shoulder. Oh, mama. That shoulder. "Is that where you want your final destination of isolation to be, Cristo?"

I take some time out of my night to appreciate the way that black curly hair of hers looks against that white satin dress she's wearing. Aphrodite can't even compare to this woman. "Well, Madeira  _is_  the archipelago of warmth and serenity. Arendelle is nice this time of year, but I don't want to be around to see what its winters look like. I'm only here because this is as far as my inheritance money takes me. The Midnight Sun doesn't sound like an enjoyable tourist attraction, either. Not for my tastes, anyway." I hand her a glass of aquavit.

" _Moltes gràcies_."

" _Ets molt benvingut_." I love how cultured I am. "So? Thoughts on the previous topic?"

She smiles at her wineglass instead of my smile, but I know the pause is from hesitation. She does exactly what I thought she would by looking up at the banner behind us and changing the subject, "Don't you find this out of place?"

My eyes follow her pointing finger and land on the Spring Spite. "I find it stupendous."

Luisa walks off the balcony to behold the banner from inside the ballroom. "A nymph is  _not_  a national symbol. The king always had a bizarre fascination with them, however. Sprites and trolls alike."

I join her out of common courtesy. "Well, I don't know anything about trolls, but Spring Sprites make fabulous gardeners."

She smiles at her wineglass again. "You can find humor in anything, can't you?" Her blue eyes hit me right in the heart. "I wish my father was more like you, Cristo..."

The effect wears off, though. "...Annnd  _speak-_ ing of  _fath-_ ers..."

Luisa looks at the ballroom. Her dear papa is asking around for his baby girl, and I don't want to be locatable if an ambassador ends up pointing at the irresistibly handsome cradle-robber on the balcony. "Ah. Right on time for ruining things, isn't he? I'd better ease his anxiety..."

"And mine, if you'd please."

If anything, she ups my blood pressure by one hundred percent after smiling at me with a promise in her eyes. It's a promise to disappear into the garden with moi as soon as she can, and I'm willing to hold her to it. The departure of Luisa the Goddess crushes me a bit less when I notice a surprise guest standing beside the banner. Because you're all probably dying to know, the surprise guest is ― yep, you guessed it ― Queen Elsa herself.  _I_  personally thought she was over coronation day by now, but I can see who herded her back into the pastures of every single woman's nightmare: Belgian, Russian, Swedish, and Moroccan old farts are attacking her with glib compliments.

Half the world is so thirsty for her favor that I'm tempted to water them down with my aquavit out of the kindness of my heart. Well,  _that_ , and the fact that she's a necessary asset on my list of necessary interests. As if the angels are singing,  _"We're on your side tonight,"_  all four walking countries give her a break as another waltz is introduced. By now, the whole world knows she's a non-dancer, so they have no choice but to leave her standing on the wall. The sudden emptiness makes it apparent to both of us that it's just us.

I don't even attempt to hide my delight. Her Majesty tries to hide fifty percent of her discomfort by cracking a polite smile that makes me want to snort. It's the type of smile that tells you she doesn't want to keep holding eye contact with you, but she doesn't want to come off rude, either. Still, I can't say the face that wears it isn't easy on the eyes. In fact, it's overstimulating. With that hourglass figure, that  _I-come-from-money_  sophistication, that fancy splendor, that sterling silver hair, and those sapphire twinklers in her eyes, she looks absolutely _fantastic_  this close.

...My sincerest apologies, Luisa, but my mouth is getting dry.

My new neck-breaker looks away from me to start patting the cinnamon roll that happens to be her bun. I get the feeling that what she really wants to do is take the darn thing down. You know, let her locks flow. Let herself  _breathe_...

...

She'd look stupendous with a French braid down her back.

"Looks good," I blurt after a dry swallow. Water, anyone?

She stops patting her bun and frowns at me like I've seen too much of that vulnerable little side she tries to hide behind manners and grace.

Boy do I wish there was a rifle I could borrow to shoot myself in the foot with right now. This is  **the**  queen, not a village girl in some pub, and you'd think my right brain would remember that. Normally I'm pitch-perfect when it comes to adapting to the environment of whomever I'm serenading, but she looked so much like any normal young woman who was having a hard time, that I completely forgot her rank  **and**  mine. She saves me the embarrassment by not responding right away, but she does use the silence to ask me with her jewel-blue eyes if I'm an idiot while she's in the makings of putting together a polite reply.

"Sorry." Unsmooth. "I mean, pardon." What'n the world? "Wh-What I  _meant_  was―"

"―It's  _fine_ ," Queen Elsa cuts in, still frowning. She's about three worlds away as she stares at some spot in the floor like a portal will open up and let her fall in. Her voice is trembling as well, but I don't know if it's with annoyance or anxiety. Maybe both. It's not like she can say  _now please, go the hell away_  in front of five hundred people who're just waiting for her to royally mess up.

"Actually, I was talking about the banner." Actually, I'd rather not talk at all for a year. "The Spring Sprite ― it looks good. Great, actually! For a... _ballroom_...banner..."

She unclenches her hand as her eyes shift between her feet and the floor, before raising her gaze to the painting with a look that makes me feel invisible. Which is a first, by the way. But something about her face is saying,  _"So that's what it is."_

I eye her face and her hands, convinced that one word more would be one mistake too many.

"Are you very familiar with the Spring Sprite?"

"Who?"

She gives me an effortless  _"Are you stupid?"_  look. "...Didn't you just―"

"Oh!  _Right_. Um." Slap yourself. Seriously, just slap yourself and call it a night, because you're no  _Monte Cristo._


End file.
